Dead Butterfly

I wish I had the words, the skill to preserve your beauty
But like Cobb I can't capture all your perfection and imperfections.
In this way creativity slips away just as all of you do.

There's a lust to drink deep of the right angles of your face
To set behind glass the golden ratio of your waist.
Ice blue eyes dim to so many shades of deep brown.
Teeth and mouths so deserving of praise that won't be heard.

Hands that are a marvel all their own
And freckles that should be followed like a map.
These weak letters that won't ever carry the full weight
Of what all your loveliness does
Will sacrifice for the cause.